


marionette

by fshep



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Creampie, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Objectification, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trust Kink, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-16 20:55:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16961295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fshep/pseuds/fshep
Summary: “Physically, I can’t do much else to simulate comfort—short of disabling the code that keeps me upright altogether.”





	marionette

**Author's Note:**

> saw some concept art where androids had clear casing and uhhhhhhhhhh got inspired! enjoy

Hank has always been a pretty big fan of physical affection. He’d been lucky to have caring, attentive parents that gave him a hug before school, a pat on the head after he aced a test, and a whirl around in a circle, just for fun, before he grew into something bigger and heavier and twice the size of his own mom.

Stumbling onto the dating scene, cuddling came, guaranteed, with being a teenaged boy over six feet tall. Girls clung to him, demanding it, and a handful of boyfriends here and there couldn’t help but draw closer to his bulk. His ex-wife loved to drape herself all over him—he felt warm and secure beneath her weight, pressed down into the couch—and Cole’s arms around his neck as Hank gave him piggy-back rides were unlike anything else. A real gift.

Cuddling with Connor proves to be somewhat of a challenge.

“Just—relax, alright?” Hank instructs, arm settling around the android’s shoulders. The television flickers from one commercial to the next, volume pitched low. “You’re stiff as hell.”

“I am relaxed,” he reassures. “I’ve minimized a few non-integral subroutines and temporarily disconnected myself from the CyberLife network. It’s the closest I can get to _lounging_.” Connor rolls his shoulders, speech faltering for a moment. “Physically, I can’t do much else to simulate comfort—short of disabling the code that keeps me upright altogether.”

Hank glances at him. “What do you mean?”

While Connor searches for a suitable, comprehensible explanation, Hank brushes his thumb along the column of Connor’s neck. His synthetic skin has a slight tacky quality to it, but doesn’t resist Hank’s ministrations.

“It’d be like submitting to the force of gravity.”

Brows flicking upwards, Hank pauses. “Totally limp, huh?”

“Yes.”

Hank makes a valiant effort to stay non-reactive, eyes glued to the TV, but he can see Connor squinting at him in his peripheral. It’s a weighty gaze—especially because he _knows_ he’s being analyzed—so Hank can only handle a moment or two before he casts a quick look over at Connor. 

His brows are set in a low drag, jaw tense. Hank lifts his hand up to the corner of Connor’s mouth in an attempt to smooth it back into complacency.

“Does that… _interest_ you?” 

Maybe, if he keeps petting Connor, he won’t have to answer. But he can’t have Connor coming up with all kinds of misconceptions, so he says, “I mean—on a base level, yeah. Not sure how to describe it without sounding like a pervert, but that’s on par with some BDSM shit. Like tying somebody up so that they’re totally immobile without all the hassle of learning which kind of knots go where.”

Times like these, Hank misses the LED. Three colors could never encapsulate the wide range of emotions that Connor is now privy to, but it gave a helpful enough indication to know whether or not Hank should’ve kept his mouth shut. 

Now he has to interpret Connor’s mood the old-fashioned way—which garners difficulty when the android’s expressive capacity is a bit limited.

Connor blinks. “Do you not like it when I move around during intercourse? I was under the impression that unresponsiveness is considered uncanny.”

“I like it,” he rushes to say, which is the understatement of the century. Whether or not Connor’s pleasure is heightened to a level that robs him of conscious actions or it’s just a byproduct of his desire to appeal to Hank, he’s not sure—but it’s a sight to behold nonetheless. “Love it, in fact.” With his free hand, he scratches at his beard. It’s difficult to explain _kink_ to somebody that only knows the dictionary definition. “Look, I’m not asking you to do anything like that. It’s just—a good mental image.” 

“A fantasy?”

Connor doesn’t understand fantasies, not really, but from what he’s said about pre-constructions, he can experience something of a similar nature. 

“Sure. A favorable scenario with an unlikely outcome.” 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Connor looks up at him. State of the art negotiator and his most dangerous weapon is a pair of hypnotizing doe eyes. “I’m willing to try anything with you.”

Jesus. Hank is suddenly very aware of the rhythmic pounding of his own heart.

As always, his first instinct when presented with something too good for him is to deny it. “No,” he says, shaking his head to dispel the flood of possibilities assuming control of his last remaining brain cells. “No—how’d we even get here, huh? I just wanted you to take it easy for a change. Relax, remember?”

“I am,” Connor says with an infinite amount of patience. “I’m sorry that what I outwardly present doesn’t conform to the idea of relaxation you comprehend—but I am.”

Great job, Anderson. Now you’re just an asshole.

“Don’t _apologize_.” He squeezes his arm around Connor, tugging him closer. Pressing a kiss to his temple, he adds, “I believe you.” 

Connor wiggles in his grasp, so he relaxes his grip and allows the android to rearrange himself. He swings a leg over both of Hank’s to straddle his lap, facing him with the little quirk to his lips that drives Hank crazy.

“Then believe me when I say I’d like to give myself up to you, Hank.” 

Exhaling, slow and even, Hank lifts his hands to Connor’s hips.

“You sure you’re down for this? It’s kinda—it’s…” Shit, he might as well just say it. “It’s basically, just... objectification.” 

And there are plenty of sick bastards that’ll never see an android as anything _but._  Connor hasn’t said anything outright, but Hank’s more observant than anybody gives him credit for these days, and he’s noticed the way Connor strives for human mimicry. It’s probably for Hank’s benefit, because he can’t figure out any other reason why Connor would care enough to act a certain way during instances outside of an investigation. If Hank wasn’t doing the same thing, cleaning up his appearance and hitting the gym in the evenings to work himself into something a little more sturdier to appeal to an android that doesn’t give a shit about how he looks, he might be chastising him.

As it is, they’re just a couple of dumbasses trying to be better for each other. Not that “human” equates to “better”—not by a long shot—but Connor’s effort still touches him, no matter how misguided. 

“I’m sure. If I change my mind, I’ll say ‘red’. Even though I won’t be able to move my mouth, I can still speak directly from my voice box.” He promptly showcases this by saying “Like so,” without a single twitch of his mouth.

Hank almost comments on how fucking _weird_ that is, but Connor’s eyes are boring into him as if he’s expecting it, so he refrains.

“Handy,” he says instead, approving. Connor blinks twice in succession and then smiles.

Hank leans in to steal a taste of it, kissing Connor deep. Connor loves to kiss with his tongue—big surprise there—and Hank is eager to oblige. Jaw lax, he allows Connor to explore as he pleases while he focuses on untucking his shirt from his jeans to expose the freckled skin beneath.

“Off,” he mutters, tugging the shirt up Connor’s torso. Connor breaks away with a pointed sigh (and Hank _knows_ it’s pointed because Connor doesn’t need to breathe) and unhooks the buttons with lightning-quick proficiency. He deposits it over the arm of the couch before grabbing one of Hank’s hands and forcing it onto his naked chest. He soaks up touch like a sponge, arcing his body closer like he’s starved for it. In doing so, he notices the evidence of Hank’s burgeoning arousal beneath his thigh and grinds down against it.

Hank flexes his hips, straining to meet him, and then nips at Connor’s jaw.

“Should move this into the bedroom.”

Nodding, Connor says, “I’ll wait to disable my automation, then.”

A beat. Hank pulls back. “What, you don’t think I can carry you? You’re not _that_ heavy.”  

Connor’s brows lift just enough to ignite Hank’s competitive spirit. “I’m much heavier than most men my size and weight.” Hank wraps his hands around the backs of Connor’s thighs. “And once I dis—ah!” 

Hank pushes himself off of the couch, Connor hoisted in his arms, and only adjusts his stance twice before hitting Connor with a brow of his own. “You were saying?”

The creases at the corner of Connor’s eyes deepen as he smiles. “Never mind.” His forearms settle around Hank’s shoulders. “Please be careful. I’m going to become dead weight in a moment.”

“I’ve got you.” He sure hopes he’s got him

Connor graces him with one more wet kiss. Then, he sets his head to the side and promptly _sags._  

Grunting, Hank staggers, biceps flexing with the strain of keeping Connor in the air. He’s heavy, but Hank is stronger. He manages to carry Connor all the way to the bedroom, where he promptly deposits Connor onto the mattress. 

He sprawls, which is a sight to see. Usually, his movements are precise, calculated; even during the midst of sex, Connor holds himself in a particular way—whichever he deems appropriate in context. Connor overthinks. That’s his _thing,_ what he was made to do.

It’s nice to release him from that burden, for a while. 

Hank strips Connor of his jeans and unzips the front of his own so that he can pull out and relieve some the building tension in his gut. But Christ, he could get himself off just like this: Connor at his disposal like a glorified _toy_. 

He spreads Connor’s legs, sliding his finger along Connor’s pink folds. He’s leaking viscous, scentless lubrication. Pleased, Hank rubs his fingertips against Connor’s clit and stuffs a few fingers inside of him. 

“Already wet?” he rumbles. “Were you programmed to be such a slut, or did that only happen after you deviated?” 

“I’m whatever you want me to be, Lieutenant,” Connor echoes in a perfect mimicry of the first time he’d said those words, subsequently ruining Hank’s life.

“Asshole,” Hank laughs, replacing his fingers with his cock. He groans under his breath and rolls his hips in small, experimental thrusts.

“Oh,” says Connor. He stares at the ceiling with wide eyes.

“What?”

“It feels—It’s—a lot,” he stutters. “I’m interpreting the sensational feedback at a faster, more efficient rate. It’s… difficult to keep track of it all.” 

Sounds a lot like _I’m overwhelmed by your big dick, Hank,_ which is exactly what Hank was going for.

“What else can you disable?” He squeezes Connor’s waist, thumbs digging into the sides of his abdomen. Patches of skin fade away beneath his touch and he’s hit with a stroke of genius. “Your skin. Bet that takes a pretty dedicated pathway to keep it going. Why not let it rest for a while?”

With no visual cues for Hank to read, he focuses on the inflection in Connor’s voice. 

“I’ll look different.” _Inhuman,_ he means.

“So?” Hank pushes and prods at the receding filter. He catches a glimpse of hard, clear plastic, so unlike the shiny white alloy he’s used to seeing coat Connor’s long fingers. “I don’t know what you’re like under here. I’m curious.” 

The silence spans for long enough that Hank considers rescinding his offer; anything that brings Connor discomfort just isn’t worth it. It’s easy to understand and relate to his hesitation, anyway. Exposure of the highest degree. Another facet of vulnerability after he’d already placed his physical autonomy in Hank’s eager hands.

But Connor says, “Okay,” and his skin recedes, starting from beneath Hank’s palms and slowly spanning down each limb. Hank watches with fascination, adoration blooming in his chest. The evening light coats his chassis with warmth, disrupted by faint lines of electric blue aligning the symmetrical structure of Connor’s components.

Hank leans down to press a kiss to Connor’s sternum, the dip between his collar, to the column of his throat—following the upward drag of deactivation—but the texture changes beneath his lips. He lifts his head. 

Connor’s face remains as is. Warm, brown eyes. Strong jaw dotted with moles. Butterfly-lashes below a devastatingly endearing curl of hair. Even devoid of expression, he’s gorgeous. Hank ventures that’s why he doesn’t remove it.

“S’probably more work for you to hold just part of it in place,” murmurs Hank, nudging at Connor’s cheek with his nose.

“It’s fine.”

Is this what it’s like for Connor whenever Hank feels self-conscious about his weight or his age? An exasperated sense of helplessness? 

“Alright. But if you wanna drop that too, go for it. I want to see.”

“Okay, Hank.”

Hank rolls his eyes. _Okay, Hank,_ he says, like he knows what Hank actually wants better than the man himself. After pecking Connor’s lips, he leans back and enjoys the expanse of Connor’s vulnerable body. There are two clear, cavernous sections of his torso; one above his chest, the other over his lower abdomen. The former exposes his heart—his pump, whatever—and thunders at a pace not unlike a human’s.

He places his hand on top of the plexiglass case, fingers spread wide, and watches it glow with rapt fascination. A faint warmth transfers from the case to Hank’s fingertips. 

Next, his hand and eyes travel down to Connor’s navel, and—

“Holy _shit_ , Connor.”

That’s his dick. He can _see_ his dick at the bottom of Connor’s gut. It’s not the entire length, just the head and about a half-inch below that, but the sheer arousal that courses through Hank’s veins at the simple sight of it jerks him forward in an attempt to push himself further, to see _more._

The hot, slick heat of Connor’s hole feels like heaven, it always does, and the visual enhancement presses _all_ of Hank’s buttons. He hopes Connor’s enjoying himself, too.

He starts to thrust again, slow and deep. A faint _whrrr_ sounds from somewhere inside of Connor. 

“That feel good?” he murmurs, lifting one of Connor’s legs. It’s still dead weight without Connor to oblige the movement, but otherwise light enough for him to manhandle with a bit of effort. He sidles in closer, stomach aligned with the bottom of Connor’s thigh, and rocks up into him. The movement jostles Connor’s position on the bed.

“Fuck,” Connor surmises emphatically.

Hank pauses to wheeze out a laugh, thumbing at the ankle propped up onto his shoulder. “Too much?” 

“No.”

“Got it.”

He spends a couple of minutes fucking Connor like that. Each time he rolls his hips forward, Connor shifts. The more he moves, the more glad he is that he convinced Connor to deactivate his skin; the pulsating signs of life dispel any likeness to a corpse.

But the way he’s surrendered himself to Hank—

Hank wraps his hand around Connor’s waist, sliding down to settle along the curve of his back and lift him up. Connor’s limbs drape at his sides, head hanging. The angle changes, and Connor _spasms_ like something inside of him short-circuits. It’s gotta be an unintentional movement, beyond Connor’s control, because Hank rarely witnesses him behave in a manner so distinctly _robotic._

Not that he has any complaints. He’s well aware that he’s dating an expensive piece of equipment with a heart and soul—and he loves every minute of it.

“You’re so fuckin’ perfect,” he decides to remind Connor, just to dispel any doubts that might be lingering. “Look at you.”

That _whrrr_ sounds stutters and amplifies in Connor’s throat. Hank smirks, leaning down to mouth at it; a light vibration tickles his lips.

When holding Connor upright starts to cramp his hand, Hank drops him back onto the bed. He pushes Connor’s thighs apart, as far as a gymnast’s can go, and pounds into him with unrelenting thrusts. He can’t keep his eyes off of his cock sliding in and out of Connor; it pushes him toward orgasm at a backbreaking pace. He wants to _see_ —

“Oh, fuck,” he hisses, halting flush against Connor. Come pulses inside of him, _into him_ , and Hank watches it happen through that clear shell. He grinds into him with a low growl, pushing out spurt after spurt until there’s nothing left and Connor is filled with it. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

The wave of euphoria peaks for a long, disorienting moment. After he pulls out, gradual, he raises Connor’s hips to watch the come drip down the posterior of his chassis with avid appreciation.

He scoots back on his knees to give himself some room. Then, he slides his ring and middle finger into Connor’s messy hole, thumb hard over the sensor above it, and pushes the leaking come back inside of him with pointed thrusts.

“Hank,” says Connor, voice split into two ranges. 

“I gotcha. C’mon, baby.”

Connor seizes up, clenching hard around Hank’s fingers, and the last of his synthskin evaporates. Hank soothes a palm over his stomach until he winds down, eagerly taking in the smooth, exposed planes of Connor’s true face. Hank’s not sure what Connor was so afraid of; it’s still _him_. The slant of his jaw and shape of his cheeks are unmistakable.

As he unfurls back into his body, shifting and conforming, Hank notices the fluid leaking from Connor’s eyes. He pulls his hand out from Connor’s entrance and wipes it on the sheets before bending down close.

“There you are,” Hank whispers, mopping up Connor’s tears with his beard. The solution is a bit thicker than he expects, but it doesn’t bother him. Maybe he should feel a little ridiculous nuzzling Connor like he’s a damned cat, but that’s the thing about intimacy—he just doesn’t give a shit doing anything other than what feels _right._

Connor loves to be touched. Sure, he’s not as malleable as a human, but that doesn’t mean he should be deprived of it.

Only when the wetness fades does Hank lift himself back up to peer at Connor’s face. He’s blinking, now, staring at Hank with an expression caught between awe and wonder. 

Hank’s fingertips overlay warm plastic as he cups Connor’s cheek. “You good?”

“Yes.” The lack of hesitation soothes away the niggling worries at the forefront of Hank’s mind. Connor’s processors are sharp, accurate; if there’s a problem, he’ll know about it right away. “Hank…” 

“Yeah?” 

“I love you.”

An ache blooms in Hank’s chest. It’s good, though. Like a shot of courage. An embrace that knocks the breath out of him. 

“I was gonna say it first, you little shit.”

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. Even without the humanoid features to aid with expression, he manages to look coy.

“Uh huh.” As Connor places his hand over Hank’s, holding it steady, he says, “Love you, too.”


End file.
